


white noise

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The obsession was a death spiral that Otabek couldn’t wrench himself out of.





	white noise

 

Yuri Plisetsky had a cast iron gaze and a spine of liquid steel.

He was the most striking of the novice skaters, with his flaxen hair and delicate features. His green eyes were wide and doll-like, polished clear with determination. His backward cambré was startlingly impressive, back bending double at an impossible angle that made Otabek’s breath catch in horror.

Yuri Plisetsky was, after all, blessed with a fine instrument of a body, and that was sometimes more important than any amount of natural talent. Although, as Otabek observed, Yuri was not lacking in that, either. Nor in resolve, or dedication.

It was no mystery why he would be the one staying on at Yubileyny as Yakov Feltsman’s own student.

As for Otabek, he'd flown to the U.S. with his mother after that summer camp to train with an American coach. He found that the Americans were generally more relaxed than the Russians. They preferred to focus on programs as a whole, rather than the individual elements.

(Their overall technique was, however, not necessarily of the same standard.)

A couple of years later, Otabek moved to Canada, and was coached alongside Jean-Jacques Leroy. His mother had left for Europe, although she phoned him every day and attended every one of his competitions. It was a productive period, with some healthy competition and a lot of arduous work on his skating skills and transitions. Despite JJ’s cordiality, Otabek did not make new friends easily, which ensured that he had ample time to siphon into his training.

Amidst the changing rink mates and the language barriers which still persisted from time to time (although, as his Canadian coach liked to say, they all spoke the language of skating), only one thing remained constant.

Yuri Plisetsky.

Or rather, Yuri Plisetsky’s victories. News about him as a novice was scarce, but he exploded into the junior circuit as the top qualifier to the Junior Grand Prix Final, which he won. In fact, Yuri won all of his events in his two years as a junior. Otabek found himself watching Yuri’s competitions as one might a car crash.

It wasn’t admiration, not exactly — though if it was, it was buried so deep inside Otabek’s mind that he was barely aware of its existence. Watching Yuri was more of— an inevitability, perhaps, like a grisly murder mystery that he couldn’t put down. An inexplicable thirst, a morbid curiosity, when every gold medal felt like a knife twisting in the chest, an ephemeral reminder of his own insignificance, of the clear green eyes which stared ahead into nothing but came alive in competition.

A deep-seated jealousy which he refused to acknowledge, even as the lethal grace of Yuri’s performances haunted Otabek at his darkest moments.

“The Russian Fairy makes it look easy, doesn’t he? It’s going to be fun when he turns senior,” JJ commented. Otabek had been watching one of Yuri’s practice videos to see his quad toe technique.

Otabek didn’t categorically hope for Yuri to _fall_ on his hair-raising jumps, but he did find himself deliberately looking for imperfections in Yuri’s skating. An unclear edge, or awkward arms, or an ill-timed landing. As though Yuri’s shortcomings somehow made up for Otabek’s own insecurities.

Yuri was a skater aware of his own charisma. His arrogance was, however, supported by his automaton-like consistency.

As a junior, Otabek had faced Yuri as a competitor only two times: at the Grand Prix Final and the following World Championships. To be fair, it wasn’t much of a competition for _gold_ , with Yuri in the running. In the kiss and cry after his free skate at that last Junior Worlds, Otabek told his coach of his intention to turn senior the following season.

*

Bronze at the last Worlds. Gold at both of his Grand Prix assignments. The next time Otabek saw Yuri, it was at the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona.

His coach told him that he had a good chance of winning this, if he pulled his mental state together in the days before. Otabek would usually hire a motorbike and tour around the cities that he found himself in. This time, he chose not to indulge himself. He needed to beat Yuri, so he stayed at the rink for longer and practiced harder.

After all, he did not come so far by relying on the talent and resources which he did not have. Diligence was his currency, and he was willing to trade with discomfort and pain.

(He knew it wasn’t healthy, the way that everyone else settled down into white noise in his mind.)

The night before the men’s short program, Otabek was bemused to find #YuriAngelsFanMeeting trending on Twitter. He tapped into the tag to find an avalanche of photographs of Yuri with his fans. Yuri looked angry and resentful in the earlier pictures, but slowly brightened up with the introduction of more cat-themed items. One of the last pictures Otabek saw was of Yuri in a darkened alleyway near the hotel, beaming while clutching a stray cat to his chest.

It was easy, sometimes, to forget that Yuri was just a child. Otabek had always thought of him as a skater, first and foremost. A formidable opponent, who didn’t even have Otabek on his radar. A benchmark that Otabek kept falling short of. Someone cold and untouchable, who peppered Otabek’s thoughts like a green-eyed ghost, an insistent reminder of Otabek’s own inferiority.

Later, Otabek would reflect that his desperation was his downfall. Despite a stellar short program, he had ended up finishing fourth.

*

Worlds was in Boston. At the hotel, Otabek found himself in the same elevator car as Yuri. Yuri was fiddling with his phone before he suddenly looked up and stared at Otabek blankly. His eyes were shockingly green.

Otabek stared back.

“You were robbed by JJ in Barcelona,” Yuri finally said, voice flat. “Make sure that you beat that fucker this time.”

The lift stopped, and Yuri stepped out before Otabek could say anything.

*

Otabek did end up beating JJ, but only because JJ managed to pop two of his jumps in his free skate. Yuri was flawless save for a single fall on a fully-rotated quad, but he looked unhappy all the same, standing alone in the middle of the podium at the medal ceremony.

“Well, congratulations,” Yuri said as Otabek skated up to claim second place.

Later, back at the hotel, JJ took it upon himself to explain Yuri’s foul mood to Otabek.

“The Fairy wanted a challenge,” he said bluntly, “and none of us could deliver. My free skate was atrocious, Yuuri Katsuki’s always been a headcase, and Victor. Well, he’s hardly in the best shape, is he?”

“Most people would be satisfied with just winning,” Otabek pointed out. “Yuri used to be the same.”

“I suppose that’s true, when he was in juniors. But Yuri chased his idol across continents and was rejected for a boilerplate foreign skater, wasn’t he? It’s no wonder if he’s feeling a little insecure and wanting to prove himself.”

“Insecure?” Otabek wanted to laugh, just a little.

“You sound surprised. You’ve never even met him, Otabek.”

“You don’t know him, either.”

JJ shrugged. “I know the look in his eyes. The fear that you’re never going to be good enough. It’s enough to drive anyone insane.”

“Insane,” Otabek repeated. “You’ve never been normal, JJ.”

JJ grinned at him. “But the maddest skaters are the most brilliant, aren’t they? Who else would choose to do the things we do to stay at the top? Just look at Victor Nikiforov, after all.”

*

Yuri Plisetsky’s mother was a beautiful woman who sometimes appeared on Russian talk shows. That was as far as Otabek knew, and when he was whiling away the time until the gala exhibition, he found himself watching her interviews on his laptop. She wore her hair swept into a chignon and gushed a lot about her son.

A derisive snort sounded from behind him.

Yuri Plisetsky, leaning against the backstage wall, head cocked as he stared at the video on the screen.

“Why are you watching that shit? Don’t watch that shit,” he said eventually, flicking his eyes up at Otabek. “If you want the inside scoop on me, you can just fucking ask.”

“Alright,” Otabek said evenly. “Tell me about your mother.”

Yuri made a disgusted noise. “ _What_? I offer to spill about my weaknesses and tell you how to beat me, and you ask me _that_?”

“Your flip is your weakest jump,” Otabek said. “You have trouble timing your quad toe loop. Your edges could be better. Your stamina is improving, but you still get more tired than you would like towards the end of your free skates. You let your emotions get the better of you too easily. You’re terrified of failure.”

Yuri’s gaze sharpened to a glare.

“You don’t need to tell me your weaknesses,” Otabek said.

Yuri sneered.

Finally, he snapped: “My mother had me too young and spent my formative years trying to get famous. Now that she’s famous, she shows me off like a trophy. Like she had a role in raising me. She makes me sick. Happy now?”

He whirled around and left, glittery purple blazer flying in his wake.

*

At the Rostelecom Cup the next season, Otabek broke Yuri Plisetsky’s existing record for the highest short program score. As always, his mother hugged Otabek like a child and insisted on taking several photographs at the hotel afterwards. She left him in his hotel room, making him promise to have an early night.

The banging on the door began not even two minutes after she left. Bemused, Otabek answered it.

Yuri Plisetsky was scowling at him.

“My mother can’t tell a fucking salchow from a loop,” Yuri announced.

Otabek stared back at him.

“But my grandfather knows that a quad lutz has a base value of 13.6.” Yuri shoved a steaming paper packet at him. “Take this.”

The smell of freshly baked dough wafted up.

“Well?” Yuri demanded.

Otabek opened his door wider. “Maybe you should come in,” he said.


End file.
